The grandmother in the rustbucket was backing out of her parking space. I considered flagging her down to hitch a ride, but I could see there wasn’t a spare inch of room in her car. She ground the gearshift into drive, and half a dozen children pressed their faces to the glass as they passed me by. A black SUV zipped into the spot she’d vacated.

A parked car to my right was idling in its space, and I sneaked a sideward look at it. It was a big silver Mercedes with a cloud of cotton candy puffing out of its tailpipe. A man in a shirt and tie was behind the wheel, and beside him was a young woman. The rear windows were tinted black, so I couldn’t see if there were any other passengers. Was the driver the hit man? Did a hit man travel with an entourage? Maybe the woman was the hit man. Hit woman.

I eyed the woods on the other side of the highway. I hadn’t gone for a run in two months, but it looked like that was my only exit. I started to thread my way between the parked cars. The traffic was heavy in both directions on the highway. I’d have to bob and weave in my sprint to get across.

I heard a car door pop open. I threw a look right at the Mercedes, but its doors were closed, and the driver and the woman hadn’t moved. I turned to the left as the driver’s door opened on the newly arrived SUV. The sun glare made the windshield opaque, but a figure cleared the doorway, and as soon as he straightened and his head rose higher than the roof of the car, I saw that he was Lester Willard.

I hesitated between two parked cars. Lester was the one who’d warned me to be careful, who’d hinted that Barrett might post my bail to get at me. I gazed at him over the roofs of four parked cars. He gazed back. I couldn’t guess whether he was here to deliver me from that fate or to deliver me to it.

Another car door popped open, and my head whipped the other way. The rear door of the silver Mercedes was swinging open. Someone was climbing out of that car, too.

I spun back. Lester stood waiting by the open door of the SUV, and the sun passed behind a cloud, the glint off the SUV windshield faded, and I could see straight through to the passenger seat. I could see Jack Culligan, waiting.

A shout came from the Mercedes.

Behind me was the jail. To my left was Jack Culligan, to my right the wet-work team in the Mercedes. My only hope of escape was to dash across the highway and run into the woods, but Lester was built like a running back, and I knew he’d catch me before I got fifty yards. I was trapped.

I’d definitely overplayed my hand.